Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 77

Chapter 77

“Ms. Rivera was suspended.” Emily was talking fast, words running

together. “For–for failing to properly supervise her students. The

notice says she ‘failed to prevent a student under her advisory from

engaging in defamatory behavior that damaged the school’s

reputation and violated the code of conduct.““.

My vision did something strange. Everything got very sharp and clear

at the edges, and too bright.

“They’re blaming her,” I said slowly. “For what I did at the lecture.”

“Yes.”

Emily’s voice cracked. “The notice says she should have

reported your ‘concerning behavior‘ to administration earlier. That

she failed in her duty as your homeroom teacher to guide you

properly. They suspended her pay effective immediately. She’s banned

from campus. If the board rules against her at the hearing, she’ll be

fired.”

I walked to the window. Looked out at the street. A man was walking

his dog. A woman was getting into a car. Normal things. The world

just continuing.

“Elara? Are you still there?”

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“Yeah.” I watched the woman drive away. I pressed my forehead

against the window glass. It was cold.

“They’re punishing everyone connected to you,” Emily said quietly.

“That’s what people are saying. First Mason had to transfer. Now Ms.

Rivera. They’re sending a message.”

After we hung up, I stood at the window for a long time. The glass

fogged with my breath, then cleared, then fogged again.

Ms. Rivera was my homeroom teacher. She’d always been kind to me.

Quiet, professional kindness–checking if I’d submitted college

applications, asking if I needed recommendation letters, nodding

encouragingly when I spoke in class.

She hadn’t done anything wrong. She’d just been assigned to be my

teacher.

And now she’d lost everything.

Because I’d stood up at that lecture. Because I’d exposed Sloane’s

theft. Because I’d refused to stay silent.

My stomach turned. I pressed my hand against it, but the nausea

didn’t go away.

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I grabbed my coat.

The building was in a worse neighborhood than mine. Older. The hallway on the third floor smelled like someone had been frying fish. The carpet was brown and worn thin in the middle, showing the floor

underneath.

I knocked on door 3C.

Footsteps inside. Then the door opened.

Ms. Rivera looked smaller than she did at school. She wasn’t wearing makeup. Her hair was down, loose around her shoulders instead of pulled back. She was in sweatpants and an old NYU t–shirt.

Her eyes went wide. “Elara? What are you-”

“I’m so sorry.” The words came out too loud. I tried to lower my voice. “This is my fault. I destroyed your career. I’ll fix it. I’ll go to the board, I’ll talk to Mr. Harrington, I’ll apologize to Sloane Kennedy, whatever

they want-”

“Elara.” She said my name gently. “Come inside. Don’t stand in the

hallway.”

The apartment was tiny. One room with a kitchenette in the corner. A

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futon that probably folded out into a bed. But the walls–every wall

had student artwork. Drawings, paintings, photographs. I recognized

three of my own practice pieces from sophomore year.

Books were stacked everywhere. On shelves, on the floor, on the small

table by the window. Art history textbooks, theory books, exhibition

catalogs.

On the table: a mug of tea, half–finished. A stack of papers that looked like recommendation letter drafts. She’d been working on student recommendations even after being suspended.

“Sit down,” Ms. Rivera said. “Let me get you some water.”

“I don’t deserve water.” My hands were shaking. I pressed them against my thighs to make them stop. “I don’t deserve anything. You worked so hard for this job. And I ruined it. Because I couldn’t control myself at that lecture, because I had to make a scene-”

“Elara.” She sat down across from me. Placed both hands flat on the

table. “Look at me.”

I looked up. Her face was calm. Tired, but calm.

“You didn’t destroy my career,” she said. “The school destroyed my

career. There’s a difference.”